


honey you should know (you’re the one i wanted to find)

by desmondkilometers (clockworkcorvids)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Desmond Miles Lives, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Museums, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, a single mention of leoezio, dont know her, in a slightly unhealthy way, long timeline worked into a short fic, no alcohol abuse/alcoholism but there is Use Of Alcohol, no beta we die like men, soft, wtf is plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25538026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkcorvids/pseuds/desmondkilometers
Summary: Things go bad, and then they get better, or maybe it happens the other way around. Thingschange, and Shaun keeps pace the whole time.
Relationships: Shaun Hastings/Desmond Miles
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started as light angst, became fluff, and then took a brief trip into the territory of pure crack before returning to fluff  
> cheers B)  
> 
> 
> title bastardized from the lyrics of [green eyes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFDN8qsvwnM) by coldplay

Everything goes to hell, because that’s just the way it goes. Things go bad, and then they get better, or maybe it happens the other way around. The snake swallows its own tail, the chicken makes the egg makes the chicken and the egg makes the chicken makes the egg, and the Earth keeps revolving around the Sun. Things  _ change _ , and Shaun keeps pace the whole time. After all, history is the study of change, history lives and  _ breathes _ change, and everything keeps going, even when it hurts.  _ Especially _ when it hurts.

_ Can’t exist without pain _ , Desmond says, and Shaun goes on some ramble about obscure philosophers that Desmond has never heard of, and he sits with his chin propped up in one hand and listens to it anyways because it’s important to Shaun, and Shaun listens to  _ his _ rambles about all sorts of things, so he might as well pay it back. Besides, he likes watching Shaun’s eyes light up with excitement when he gets to rattling on passionately about all sorts of esoteric yet fascinating things that he knows about. They hold onto each other with all they have, as more and more is torn away from them, as it looks more and more every day like they’re going to lose everything including their lives. Desmond thinks if he doesn’t die, he’s still going to lose himself, because sometimes this isn’t enough, but Shaun and Rebecca and Lucy still watch over him - and sometimes, in Shaun’s case, hold him steady - in the dead of night, no matter what language he babbles in this time. 

Shaun, in particular. He has,  _ they _ have - something. Whatever it is, it’s held back by looming deadlines and the uncomfortably bright sun on the horizon.

Desmond escapes his demons by getting as high as possible. No, not like  _ that _ , he tried some shit back in his days as a bartender, but never anything too strong, and he never stuck with anything. He’s smarter than that. He did - and still  _ does _ \- limit his alcohol consumption. No, he gets high above  _ sea level _ , high on  _ adrenaline _ , he climbs and climbs until his muscles ache and burn and his mouth is dry and his entire body shakes with the pounding of his heart, a jackhammer in his palms every time he grips a new handhold. 

He makes it back, he always does. Never says where he’s gone or what he’s done, but he always makes it back one way or another. He knows Shaun’s seen his file, knows Shaun knows he ran away and was dragged right back into the thick of it all anyways, knows Shaun trusts him to always come back. 

Those escapades are the only thing keeping him sane, sometimes, but they have their downfall. Desmond is careful, and he pays  _ attention  _ to his surroundings, and he gets in the zone when it’s the middle of the fucking night and everything is between his fragile body and whatever he’s scaling this time. Sometimes he’s climbing the walls of Monteriggioni, carefully sticking to the shadows, and he is Ezio, doing the same, five hundred years before. It’s always Ezio these days, although that wasn’t always the case - he thinks it’s because here, in his ancestor’s home, there’s more to remind him of Ezio and less to remind him of  _ himself _ . Power lines and collapsed walls and light pollution aside, this place is particularly in touch with its history, too, and sometimes Desmond genuinely forgets it’s 2012. 

Granted, that’s mostly the Bleeding Effect, but it wouldn’t be so much of a pain if he were wandering around Manhattan or something like that.

Everything hurts inside, so if Desmond’s body aches enough, maybe the dissonance of being physically okay yet also, simultaneously, being so very much  _ not _ okay - maybe that’ll go away. 

(It doesn’t. If he’s lucky, it fades a little, and the momentary distraction takes the edge off.)

He tries alcohol, once, goes back on his word to himself and tries to get blackout drunk. Even  _ tries _ is a strong word for it, though, because the responsibility he picked up as a bartender kicks in after his first drink. He doesn’t make it too far past tipsiness before he gives up and just sits there, lost in thought. He thinks about how odd it is to be on the wrong side of the bar, even though he’s been here before, how unsettling it is to think that he’s  _ permanently _ on the wrong side of the bar. 

One in the morning on a cold, cold Saturday finds him in a shitty old joint that’s somewhere between charmingly rustic and an active public health violation. There’s a half-empty drink in between his elbows on the table, the evening special. He doesn’t remember what it’s called, though he can pick out all the details lingering in his mouth. Chestnut. Something fruity, hints of apple and strawberry. Smoky, dry hops. It’s been so long since he’s done this shit, but he still has enough force of will - or maybe enough constitution - that he can’t even really turn alcohol into an unhealthy coping mechanism.

Desmond doesn’t look up when a warm arm brushes against his and a newcomer slides into the seat next to him. The dank smell of the tunnels under Monteriggioni hangs over the lingering, familiar scent of some kind of musty tea-smelling aftershave and old, yellowed paper that accompanies Shaun everywhere. Warm light glances off the wire frames of Shaun’s glasses, and the dark circles under his eyes almost look like they could contain smile lines in this light, if Desmond didn’t know better.

He’s long since accepted the fact that these are things he’s been noticing without really meaning to.

“I really hoped you’d have more self control than becoming an alcoholic,” Shaun mutters under his breath, sounding more bone-tired than angry. 

_ Hoped _ . Not  _ thought _ . What does Shaun have to gain from this -  _ any _ of this? Maybe Desmond’s reaching again.

“This is my second drink,” Desmond replies flatly, keeping his voice down even though the bar isn’t entirely empty at this hour. Not enough to get him drunk, but enough to get him  _ just _ a little tipsy. Enough that he writes off the things he’s trained to perceive as an overactive imagination. Shaun sounding just a little concerned, a slight lilt in his tone. A hand coming close to his own on the bar. The fact that Shaun is here in the first place, and isn’t striking up a shouting match or dragging him out. Not even pitying him, just  _ waiting _ . 

(He knows he isn’t intoxicated enough - in the alcoholic sense - to be seeing things. He  _ is _ intoxicated enough - in the romantic sense - to want to, though.)

“The others are going to worry.”

“And you?”

Shaun doesn’t laugh so much as exhale, but as Desmond looks up for the first time to glance sidelong at him, there’s a smile playing on his lips. 

“I already  _ have _ been.”

There’s a hand hovering over his right forearm, the one without the tattoos, soft and surprisingly gentle, squeezing slightly, and he startles when Shaun picks up what’s left of his drink, regards it for a moment, and then downs the whole thing in one sip.

He grimaces, hand still on Desmond’s arm. 

“What was  _ that _ for?” Desmond asks, and Shaun just shrugs.

“Evening special, yeah? Remind me not to come here again.  _ That _ ,” he adds, “is so we’re on even ground.”

Desmond lets Shaun walk him back to the villa, and if they take a detour and spend a while just sitting in silence in the dewy grass on a dark, rolling hill, nobody else needs to know. That’s between them, same as the fact that Shaun worries about him, same as the lingering memory of Shaun’s hand on his arm.

Maybe everything hasn’t gone to hell  _ quite _ yet, then, or it’s gone and come back. The pain subsides for a bit, but everyone knows that tides don’t strike the shore just once - no, it’s in the name; they do it in  _ waves _ .

* * *

After it all - not Lucy’s death, not the coma, but after the real end of things - Desmond doesn’t see Shaun for a few weeks. Loose ends have to be tied up on all sides, and it’s not like Desmond  _ forgets _ , not like he’s  _ avoiding _ Shaun, but he needs the time. 

His scars, though they no longer require constant bandaging, still look rather fresh and raw and, well,  _ stark _ when he finally manages to find himself in the same room as Shaun. It’s a cafe this time, not a bar, and it’s early on a late winter morning, and instead of artisan Italian beer there’s an iced coffee and a neat little cup of Earl Grey tea in between them. One guess which belongs to whom.

They make small talk. The weather. Scattered memories. They talk about the heavier things, too, like death and rebirth and destiny and how life is far too short to hold back. Most of the words out of their mouths aren’t worth remembering, not as much as the way that Desmond does that thing where he cups his chin in one hand and grins up at Shaun, and  _ Shaun _ , he grins  _ back _ , a wide closed-mouth smile as he pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and he holds Desmond’s gaze with that same smile as Desmond shamelessly gazes into his deep blue eyes. 

He lets Shaun reach across the table past ice cubes at the bottom of a glass, a tea bag staining the napkin it’s been placed on, to place a hand on his arm again, and he wonders if Shaun feels the same way he does, remembering how that skin once was smooth but now is rough, damaged, nearly destroyed. He wonders, more importantly, whether Shaun holds the memory of that one simple act to the same level that he does. Whether Shaun has thought about what a repeat performance would be like.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter what Shaun  _ has _ thought about it, because he’s clearly thinking about it right now, as said repeat performance is happening - and Desmond’s heart knows no such thing as stage fright, because it’s beating traitorously away in his chest and reminding him just how alive he is.

They have yet another repeat performance, except instead of a bar it’s a cafe, and instead of walking back to the villa that they’ve long since moved on from, Shaun walks Desmond back to the nearest safehouse. They’re nowhere near Italy, but they still find a place to take a detour. 

* * *

They get reassigned. Desmond disappears for a while, no doubt under the watchful eye of the Mentor. Shaun and Rebecca are a team of two, and it’s not the first time they’ve had to do this, so they make it work just fine. Moving back to the way things were before Desmond, though - that feels strange.  _ Off _ . 

He slides back into their lives eventually, shows up jetlagged in the middle of the night with no forewarning, looking somewhat more jaded but also a good deal healthier than before, and they don’t ask. Shaun and Desmond find themselves making a number of  _ detours  _ after this, sometimes after a trip to a pub or bar or cafe, and sometimes with no pretense but the desire for the other’s company. They’re a normal team now, not The Team Tasked With Saving The World, and, well, Assassins can only be so  _ normal _ , so that’s kind of subjective, but they all still find themselves sitting back sometimes and thinking  _ Oh, wait, this whole mess isn’t just resting on our shoulders anymore. _ This thought comes with equal parts suspicion and relief. 

For Desmond’s part, he’s forgotten exactly how long he’s been attracted to (read:  _ hopelessly in love with _ ) Shaun, but the fact that his death isn’t hanging over his head anymore is a double-edged sword, both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, he’s free to admit his feelings without knowing he’s going to kick the bucket any day now, because that would be  _ cruel _ , but on the  _ other _ hand, he knows he’s gotten a good chunk added onto his lifespan as of late, so it’s not like there’s anything pressuring him into the mortifying ordeal of vulnerability right away.

He keeps telling himself it’s going to be A Thing™, and he’ll make it unforgettable, but not in a flashy way that would embarrass Shaun, maybe just...something  _ personally _ unforgettable to the two of them. Whatever that means. He doesn’t really think about it enough, and that’s evidently some kind of running theme, not  _ thinking _ enough, because when he actually spills, it’s completely unplanned and, frankly, kind of ridiculous.

(It’s perfectly on brand for the two of them.)

It goes like this: they’re in a history museum. Rebecca is also somewhere in said history museum, although she’s long since abandoned them for a special exhibit that required special (overpriced) tickets. The exhibit Shaun and Desmond have found is focused on Renaissance Italy, and they’ve been there long enough that the same wandering security guard has passed them by three separate times and, on each occasion, given them the same vaguely perturbed look. In their defense, though, Shaun looks exactly like the pretentious history major he was and still is in spirit, glasses askew on his nose and button-up sleeves neatly rolled up along with his sweater. He’s got an informational pamphlet about the exhibit, and he’s currently rattling off a long bit about the Medici family, commenting in a particularly distasteful tone on certain  _ omitted details _ as he goes.

He wrote the database entries, and Desmond read every single one of them while also living out an entire lifetime’s worth of memories in Renaissance Italy, so they’re more or less on the same page here.

Even though Desmond has a firm grasp on the content, thank you very much - he would absolutely  _ ace _ a test on it if he were given one right now - he’s not actually paying much attention to what Shaun is saying. This is for two (2) reasons. One, the two of them are currently standing next to a wall displaying high-quality prints of some of Leonardo da Vinci’s work, and Desmond thinks that one speaks for itself in Ezio’s memories. Two, it’s already been established that Desmond very much enjoys listening to (and watching) Shaun ramble, possibly even more than Shaun appears to enjoy the sound of his own voice. 

Unfortunately, Desmond’s attention is firmly occupied by Leonardo’s work, the cadence of Shaun’s voice, and the way he carries himself as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other and gesticulates in a passionate yet controlled manner. He’s not actually absorbing any of what Shaun’s saying at this point, so sue him, and it’s not long before Shaun notices this. 

“Des, are you even paying attention to me?” 

Desmond, late to the punch, is mentally formulating a joke about how of  _ course _ he is, how could he  _ not _ , he just isn’t paying attention in the way Shaun  _ thinks _ he is, as Shaun continues. 

“No, I didn’t think so,” he says, sounding slightly annoyed but mostly just humoured, “you’re too busy being madly in love with Leonardo da Vinci.”

Desmond  _ definitely  _ isn’t paying enough attention, because he doesn’t think before replying, truthfully, “Nah, not Leo.  _ You _ .”

He doesn’t even stop to consider what he’s said until he realizes that Shaun’s stopped talking completely. That Shaun’s staring at him over the rims of his glasses, which have slipped all the way down his nose now, really, it’s a miracle they haven’t fallen off like this, and he almost appears to be squinting in a way that his bad vision doesn’t quite account for. 

“ _ What? _ ” Shaun enunciates. It’s quite possibly the least eloquent yet most meaningful thing he’s said all year. 

Desmond freezes up, a deer in headlights. Two roads diverge in front of him, and he starts thinking about that Robert Frost poem, because that’s one of the things he’s bonded with Shaun over, not the mutual-tolerance-turned-friendship that had spawned from always running from the same enemies, but some  _ proper  _ bonding over poetry. He’s even started saying  _ proper _ , which makes him sound like a pretentious motherfucker, but he doesn’t particularly care right now. 

Right. Two roads. He can blow it off as nothing, and keep holding back like he’s been doing for gods fucking know how long. Or he can decide that there’s no turning back now. 

“I said,” he starts, and he feels like he’s pulling back too far on a rubber band, like the pressure is too much and it’s about to snap, “I’m not madly in love with Leonardo da Vinci. That was Ezio’s thing, and as much as I forget sometimes, I’m not Ezio.”

If the security guard can overhear this, they must be so,  _ so _ confused. 

Shaun arches an eyebrow.

“Do continue,” he says, and Desmond now notices that his face has become glaringly red, muscles visibly strained as if he’s repressing something - could that be a  _ smile? _ A  _ blush? _

“I’m madly in love with  _ you _ ,” Desmond mutters into his hand, which is pressing against his face now, in an expression of pure exasperation (and to hide his own growing blush).

Shaun steps closer. Pushes his glasses up on his nose again. He’s not bothering to mask his manic grin, now, nor the fact that he might be blushing even more than Desmond is. 

“Could you say that a little louder, mate? Didn’t quite catch it.”

“ _ Asshole _ ,” Desmond says, and grabs Shaun by the collar. 

He makes it just past _Oh fuck, I’m kissing Shaun_ _now_ and to _Oh fuck, Shaun is kissing me_ back _now_ before the security guard starts yelling at them to _break it up, please and thank you, gay rights and all that, but PDA is_ not _allowed in the museum!_

“Gay rights!” Desmond yells, because he’s running on a singular braincell right now and that cell is very,  _ very _ gay and also definitely panicking more than a little, and then Shaun takes his hand and drags them to the nearest exit at top speed. 

They burst out into the park behind the museum, down a gravel footpath and through a cluster of trees, and stumble to a stop at the edge of a field bordered by more trees, foliage beginning to turn vibrant shades of red, orange, and yellow as autumn creeps towards them. The grass is freshly mown here, although it’s long and golden and waving in the breeze a little further into the field. Fallen leaves crunch under their feet, and Shaun is breathing hard from the exertion, face red for more than one reason now, while the sprint wasn’t much of a workout for Desmond. They stop, turn, and stare at each other, and Desmond doesn’t drop Shaun’s hand but is still slightly surprised when Shaun makes the same choice. 

They both burst out laughing, and Desmond sinks to his knees as the laugh shaking his body makes him double over. He splays out on his back in the cool, soft grass, tugging on Shaun’s hand, and Shaun yelps, but Desmond is pleasantly surprised when the other man lets himself be tugged down.

“That was the absolute  _ worst _ ,” Shaun breathes in between laughs, and a single spark of fear alights in Desmond’s heart, but Shaun is turning onto his side and propping his head up on one arm, sweater ridiculously rumpled now, and he’s still grinning. He smiles a lot more, these days, and it’s a good look on him. There’s an errant leaf in his hair, and Desmond can suddenly feel his own pulse beating strong in his cold hands and hot cheeks. 

He’s paying attention  _ now _ , and it’s the easiest thing in the world for Desmond to shift a little closer and cup a hand around Shaun’s neck, to drag Shaun down on top of him and smile without thinking at the way he yelps, again, in surprise, before resting both forearms in the grass and fallen leaves on either side of Desmond’s face. 

Desmond splays his fingers in Shaun’s hair, close-cropped at the bottom, and then slides his hand to one side of Shaun’s jaw, relishing the way the other man leans into his touch. He smells like that same aftershave that he’s never stopped wearing, and it mingles with the distinctive scent of fallen leaves. His glasses are no longer quite touching the bridge of his nose, but they’re still hanging on by the sides, and Desmond wouldn’t be cruel enough to let them fall anyways, not if he can do something about it. 

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

“Give me a proper kiss, you moron,” Shaun says without warning, making Desmond’s heart do all sorts of terrifying yet intriguing things, and, well, what can Desmond do but oblige him? 

It’s awkward. Shaun’s glasses poke at Desmond’s face and one of his knees is sort of digging into Desmond’s thigh at an uncomfortable angle and they’re both still getting used to... _ this _ . All of it. But it’s  _ fantastic,  _ and Desmond loves it - he loves  _ Shaun _ , he loves being able to  _ kiss _ Shaun, he loves being  _ alive _ , and he hasn’t felt so damn elated or carefree in a long, long time.

“Man, I wish we’d done this ages ago,” he admits when Shaun pulls back to breathe and grin and blush some more.

“That makes two of us,” Shaun replies. “But, well, there’s no time better than the present.”

“And we have plenty of time,” Desmond says.

Shaun kisses him again. 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there is art now,,, enjoy

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u ever think html is bad, try writing it on a phone :’)
> 
> this art is also on [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1615235%E2%80%9D%20rel=)

**Author's Note:**

> "gay rights" -some random security guard 2k13
> 
> cant believe how many different variations on 'desmond doesn't act on his attraction to shaun because he's going to die soon - haha SIKE' i've written  
> like damn kieran people are gonna think you're hyperfixating - oh wait


End file.
